This language

Already archaic

Sits ageing on

The page-

A youth-like this
Once was-

Stares vacant
Into space

Come, sit
At my right hand

The place of honour

As my write hand

Marks this page

For you

the sea gulls chanting,
the sun rising

shooting fields of fire
dancing across
the rise and fall of the sea.

she is standing by the shore.

the beautiful loser
floating lonely
like a storm cloud
ripped from the night sky.

she smiles the sorrow away
with a beauty so hidden and delicate,
distant eyes as grey as the sea at dawn.

she robs my head
sending my heart

floating
like a feather lifted
by a wayward wind.

she does her sky dance
on the sea shore
jumping
here and there
like sand fleas
across the beach
and wants for nothing more.

beautiful loser,

I see she is crazy.

and I want some of her madness.

her blessed madness.

oil pond mirrors the darkness the november

day                  sun draws white against the grey

this       leaf  lays on earth

there is no god

not hungry nor otherwise



you look at me straight and ask the past

and briefly I say & say there is no god



you did not smile nor shout you are the deadest thing

dead down .              no smiling  despite birds gone  by



on greasy wings                       .i remember your look

your face

drawn grey as mourning doves

that remind

for me there is no god

Oh how
The classifying mind

Reclaims-

Renames

The unruliness of being-

Loosens worm with
Incisive *****

For black-bird
To swoop